


Hard to Say Goodbye

by Calico (Calico321)



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Mutual Pining, Tumblr Prompt, sexy times in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico321/pseuds/Calico
Summary: He has to leave and it's getting harder every day.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Omera, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 61
Collections: The Mandalorian Ficathon — April 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Come join the fun: https://mandothon.tumblr.com/
> 
> Day 3, general prompt: barricade; unspoken

She walked in with a tray of food as she had every night since they had arrived. Din leaned against the door frame, heart heavy. This would be the last time.

“You don’t need to do this. I could have gotten it myself.”

She smiled as she always did. “I don’t mind. This way I can be sure you’re eating enough. I have a feeling you forget a lot.”

She wasn’t wrong and he dipped his head in concession. Not that this was the first time they’d tread this conversation. Maybe he’d wanted to see her smile; hear her concern over him.

She lifted the child out of his crib and bounced him slightly. “Let’s get you fed too, hmm?” The child responded with a gurgle and gnawed on his hand. Omera’s face shown with motherly love for an alien child she’d barely met. She was the perfect choice to provide a permanent home for him.

Din should tell her now, should formally ask her to take on the extra burden instead of assuming. What was he going to do, wait until he was packed and ready to hit the road? He drew a breath but let it back out. Coward.

“Okay then,” she said lightly and gazed at him for just a moment longer before passing through the curtained door.

“Omera,” he said suddenly. The sun was setting low behind her and he could easily see her silhouette painted on the rough burlap; more importantly, he knew she wouldn’t be able to see anything on his side. Without letting himself think about it further, he pulled the helmet off. “Can you wait just a moment?” he said softly.

He could hear her surprised gasp at the change in his voice. Her left hand fluttered up and settled lightly against the drape. Almost of their own volition, he ripped the glove off his right hand and placed it against hers, palm to palm. Feeling his touch, she pressed into him. He opened his mouth…he wanted to say:

 _My name is Din Djarin. I’ve stayed here_ _so_ _much longer than I should have because this place reminds me of my home, my first home that I had before I kn_ _e_ _w what_ _pain_ _and grief and hatred were. Before I learned a_ _dozen_ _ways to kill a person and twice as many to_ _make them wish they were dead_ _._ _It was a home of kindness and happiness and community, just like your village._ _And if I had become an adult in that home, I’m certain_ _that_ _I would have loved and married a woman just like you. I know this because it has taken every shred of will power I have not to take you into my arms and press my face into your hair. I want you to be the mother of my children and I want to be the father to yours. If I hadn’t sworn my soul to the_ Manda _, I would drop to my knees and offer it to you along with my heart and a promise to make you happy until my dying breath._ _If I don’t go tomorrow, I never will. And I have to, as much as that will hurt. Because there are others that depend on me and my duty has to come before my desires._

_Instead, I'm going to ask you to take this child I've found and raise him. I'm going to leave you both and hate myself every day for the rest of my life._

...but he didn’t. He said none of it.

He pressed his fingertips against hers more firmly for just a moment longer and then pulled away and slammed the helmet back on. “I just wanted to tell you that you are brave and a skilled shot; you have the spirit of a Mandalorian in you. The village would do well with you as their leader. In the case of further threats.”

“Oh,” she responded and he thought he heard disappointment in that one small sound. Her hand dropped away. “We don’t really have a leader. We’re all equals.”

“It’s not about status,” he replied in a rush. “It’s about being a touchstone, making decisions and keeping to them. Giving a sense of stability.”

“I see.”

“I just wanted you to know,” he said weakly and sat down on the cot resting his elbows on his knees.

“Well. In the spirit of disclosure, I should tell you that you are a kind and thoughtful person who cares far more about the well-being of others than yourself.” There was a brief pause, and he swore he heard the smile in the next words: “You have the spirit of a Sorgan krill farmer. You are a good person, Mandalorian. Don’t let anyone else tell you differently.”

He gasped soundlessly and couldn’t find any words to respond. She hovered for a moment longer, and then the silhouette moved away. He listened to the soft footsteps recede.

He did not move. The sun finished setting, bringing on the night and he continued to sit on the cot, not even bothering to turn a light on. The food grew cold. When she returned later in the evening to return the child and pick up the dishes she frowned at the untouched meal but didn’t say anything.

They wished each other a brief, polite good night and then he spent most of the night packing up the few belongings he’d managed to spread out despite knowing this was only ever going to be a temporary living situation.

He looked at the child, now sleeping peacefully, feeling the dark pit in his stomach grow even denser. _I’ll be leaving you tomorrow, little one,_ he thought. _You’ll forget me, but I’ll forget nothing about this place._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandothon2020 Day 8 NSFW prompt: Midnight
> 
> Stepping out of my comfort zone to do a little smut against all good reason.

Omera walked out of the longhouse and took a long breath of the night air. She looked up at the twin moons and then rolled her neck. Getting a dozen youngsters to simultaneously fall asleep was a chore under normal circumstances, but when they were scared and sad at the looming departure of their new friend, it had taken several adults too many hours of comfort and firm admonishments of quiet to finally hear nothing but soft snores.

It had to be at least midnight. Dawn would be coming too soon. Her hands clenched at the thought and without really thinking about it, she found herself walking to the barn.

The cloth drape in the doorway was pushed aside allowing Omera to see the Mandalorian sitting on his cot, cleaning the long rifle he and Cara had used to take down the mechanical monstrosity that had terrorized them for so long. She stepped up and rapped on the door frame. The Mandalorian barely glanced up. “Come in,” he said and returned his attention to his weapon.

She stepped over the threshold and stood facing him. They hadn’t spoken much since that terrifying blaster shot had exploded the beautiful afternoon. She glanced at the second bunk in the back of the barn. “Where’s Cara?”

“Spending the evening with a...friend,” he said.

“Oh, yes. She and Mareeta were being cozy at dinner.” He grunted and Omera found herself utterly self-conscious for the first time in years. They had spoken so easily before tonight; she hated that she may have destroyed that. “You’re ready to go then?”

“Yes. We’ll leave at first light.”

Omera nodded. “I’ve arranged for the wagon to take you back.”

“Thank you,” he said and finally set the rifle aside. He dropped the cloth into one of the containers he had originally brought with him. It was surrounded by others of various sizes, all of them packed and sealed just waiting to be removed. “The kid?” he asked.

“He ate well. The other children asked to spend the night together with him. We finally just got them all to sleep. They’re very sad. Winta cried all evening.”

He finally looked directly at her. “I wanted him to be able to stay.”

“I know,” she said softly. A lump of guilt formed in her throat. All night she couldn’t stop replaying those moments, just before the shot, when she had… “I need to apologize to you,” she blurted out. “What I did – tried to do – this afternoon...it was wrong, and I’m very sorry.”

He was already shaking his head. “You don’t need to.”

“I do. I made assumptions, I thought…” she took a breath. All the time they spent together, the way he held himself, turned towards her, focused on her so completely. And last evening, when he had taken his helmet off while she was just outside. She had felt he wanted to tell her something. But he didn’t. It had all been the wishful fantasizing of a youngling with only star tales in her head. “I was wrong.” She closed her eyes and then heard the barest creak of the floor boards.

She opened her eyes and there he was, standing before her, slightly to the side, as if he had intended to pass her, but he did not move further. Their right hands were so close, it would only take the smallest flick to…

Her index finger touched his and it was as if a jolt of electricity flowed though her. She waited to see if he would react, balk from her, but he stood his ground unflinchingly. Emboldened, she allowed all her fingers to contact his, dragging them upwards, feeling the contrasting texture of smooth, worn leather and the rough seams. They slid up the back of his fingers and then the hand. Her breath hitched as she reached the edge of the glove and dipped down to touch the bare skin of his wrist.

Her heart raced and she closed her eyes again to allow the tactile sensation of feeling _him_ to be her whole world for this moment. Would this be it? Would he leave her tomorrow with just this stolen touch?

“Is this all right?” she whispered, remembering her earlier overstepping of his boundaries.

“It is,” he said in low voice that made her face heat.

She slid her fingertips along that narrow access between glove and vambrace and smiled as he twisted his hand to allow her to reach the smooth skin of his inner wrist. She gave small circular strokes and slid a finger down beneath the edge of the glove, a movement that felt inexplicably obscene. With her left hand, she lifted his up. “Can I take it off?”

He was quiet for a moment and she suddenly felt certain she had reached the limit of his patience, taken too much advantage of his good nature. He would banish her now from his presence, and from his life forever.

“Yes,” he said finally, and she thought she might have heard his voice crack. Omera shivered in relief...and something else.

She began to slowly pull on each finger of the glove, from pinky to thumb, unhurriedly, as if opening a delicate gift. Tug. Tug. Tug. Once the heel of his palm was visible she gazed at it and felt absolutely overwhelmed with desire. She bent and dragged her tongue across it, tasting the sweat and leather.

Needing to see the rest, with one final tug, she pulled the glove completely off. For a moment she stood, unsure what to do with it. It seemed disrespectful to simply drop it on the ground. Perhaps sensing her dilemma, the Mandalorian plucked it out of her hand allowing her to continue as she pleased.

She focused on his inner palm and began dragging her pointer finger across the creases like the soothsayers that set up booths at the autumn harvest festivals, who would tell anyone with a coin whether they would find love or fame or fortune. She drew her finger up each of his, fascinated by each naked digit. They were clean and soft and strong, these fingers that had done so much. They had killed, she knew, but they had also protected and comforted an orphan child. They had freed her people.

Finally, she drew the hand up to her mouth and kissed the palm, then nuzzled her cheek against it. After a moment, he pulled the hand out of her grasp. Omera felt a stab of disappointment, only for him to push his fingers into her hair and cup her head, thumb rubbing against her cheek bone. He muttered something in a foreign language that sounded like, “maysha.”

She looked up into his helmet and felt he was staring at her. What was his expression? It drove her nearly mad to have to guess at his feelings.

“I won’t remove my helmet,” he said firmly, but with a low needy, almost pleading tone.

“I won’t ask you to,” she replied, heart racing.

He nodded, once, and let her go. “Lay some blankets on the floor. And close up the door. This will take a few minutes,” he said, waving at his armor.

She quickly drew the drape across the doorway. Then she removed her boots and set them outside, directly in front of the door, the unspoken signal in the village for Do Not Disturb. It was unlikely they would receive visitors in the middle of the night, but one couldn’t be too careful.

When she’d turned back around, she saw he’d removed the pauldrons and vambraces, and was working on the chest and back plates. She found the pile of blankets she’d left for them all those weeks ago. Or was it months? Years? It felt as if he had been a part of her life forever. She grabbed the blankets and began spreading them out between the cot and the window. The chest and back plates along with the thigh greaves were stacked along with the others on the cot and he’d removed the cowl and cloak. He was now sitting, unbuckling the boots.

Omera reached back to untie her tunic, but he said, “Don’t. I want to do that.” She swallowed as the molten need in her burst even hotter at his words. Finally, boots set aside he stood. “Want to help with this?” he asked.

She moved to stand before him. He was down to the duraweave suit, likely nothing complicated about removing it, so this was for...fun. She reached out and pulled up the hem of the top, gathering up a thinner undershirt as well. Lifting them slightly, she caught sight of his stomach and nearly groaned. She lifted, as slowly and reverently as she had removed the glove, reveling in feeling her knuckles drag along his torso. When she had reached his chest, he raised both arms, setting one hand down on the top of the helmet. She nodded in understanding: the garments would need to go over the armor, and it was not to move.

She pulled the clothing up, holding firm as he dropped his left arm out and then repeating with his right. Finally she wiggled it up over the edge of the helmet, after which it came off easy. She reached around him and dropped it on the cot, eyes never leaving his chest. Once her hands were free, she made quick work of exploring this new uncharted territory. He was so perfectly solid and warm. She wanted to trace ever contour, learn every line, even the jagged unnatural ones left over from poorly healed battle wounds.

While she felt ready to drown in his utter manliness, he reached up and pushed aside her hair to work the stays at the back of her tunic exactly as he had said he would. The rough fabric parted and she felt his hands reach in and caress her back causing her to shiver and nearly collapse from the sensation.

“Oh,” she gasped and lolled her head back.

He drew her in and laid her head on his bare chest. He whispered the foreign word again. Maysha.

“What does maysha mean?” she asked.

“Mesh’la. Beautiful. You are exquisite.” His hands roamed her back and his head bent down to press into her shoulder. “Holding you like this...I never…” He stopped with a growl as his hands gripped her ass and he lifted her up easily. She allowed her legs to wrap around him, hooking a hand behind his neck, the other gripping a bicep, and pressed her face to the cleft of his throat and shoulder that was accessible. “I still have to leave tomorrow.” The words were almost choked, regretful, one final warning that asking for more was forbidden.

“I know,” she murmured and then darted her tongue out drawing circles with the tip. She opened her mouth and sucked at the bare flesh, following a primal compulsion to taste his very essence. A low groan vibrated against her lips. Yes, he would be gone in a few hours and it was going to hurt her in a way she hadn’t felt since her husband’s death. Would the hurt be lessened if they stopped now? Perhaps, but the need she felt at this moment was likely to drive her to insanity if denied. She pulled away. “I want you, here, now. Don’t talk about tomorrow,” she gasped.

The Mandalorian dropped to his knees and let her slide down onto the nest she had laid out. He pulled up her tunic and lifted it over her head, tossing it to the side. Then he knelt in front of her, still. From the tilt of his helmet she suspected he was gazing at her chest in much of the same wonderment she had had for his. A small giggle bubbled in her throat at the thought.

He reached out and took a breast in hand, gently massaging and running his thumb over the hardened nipple. She hummed in pleasure and leaned back. His hand drifted down her stomach and released the tie of her pants and then pulled them off her hips, tossing them along with the tunic, leaving her completely uncovered, vulnerable. His gaze, from what she could tell, roamed up and down her body. She shivered from the chill of the night air, and wanted to feel his warmth.

“Come here,” she said and grasped at his arm.

He settled down along side her and she moved into his embrace, kissing his shoulder and chest and even up on his throat as high up as she could reach. He dragged his fingers through strands of her hair.

She began working her way down his torso, pausing to suckle at his nipple. She kissed down to his abdomen and darted a quick tongue into his navel. When she arrived at the waistband of his trousers she sat up and looked at him. “May I?” she asked. “Because if this is forbidden as well, we have a problem,” she said with a wicked grin.

“You may, please,” he replied hoarsely and laid his head back.

Omera unclasped the fastener on the duraweave and tugged it down over his narrow hips and legs. She pushed them all the way off, kicking them out of the way impatiently as she took in the full length of him. His skin, though pale, held a golden tint to it. His build was slight and trim with well-defined musculature, though she felt he seemed slightly underweight, no doubt from his irregular eating habits.

Finally she let her attention focus on his cock, resting hard and straight against his lower belly, nestled in a black cloud. She turned her face to him and grinned. “Black hair, then?”

“Mmm,” he agreed and she got the feeling the blood supply was no longer pumping into the language center of his brain.

She placed her right hand on his chest and rubbed lightly. He grabbed it with his own and squeezed. Turning back to his crotch, she dragged the fingertips of her left hand through the wiry curls and cupped his balls gently. He muttered something in his language and arched slightly.

She took him into her mouth. His grip on her hand tightened. “Fuck. Omera.” She worked her head up and down, using her tongue to apply pressure along the shaft and around the tip. Her hand continued to tease and rub the scrotum. She could hear his breaths coming in shortened gasps as he held onto her for dear life. Eventually she felt him tug at her. “Stop. Not yet. Come here,” he panted.

With one last suck, she reluctantly released him and stretched along him again. She placed kisses on his shoulder. “What do you want? Should I be on top?” she whispered.

“No, roll over,” he responded and gently urged her to rotate away from him.

Omera frowned slightly but did as instructed. She flipped to face the wall and he immediately molded himself against her, sliding his arm under her head, the hand easily reaching for a breast while the other hand drew down her arm. His arousal pressed against her ass. She leaned her head back and felt the unyielding hardness of the helmet. “Is it easier for you this way,” she asked quietly.

He paused and then said, “Yes.” He brushed the hair away from her face and gently traced the outside of her ear. The hand on her breast rolled the nipple between his fingers and she moaned as it sent a stream of fire directly to her core.

His hand moved from her ear to her shoulder and glided down her arm, waist, the curve of her hip. He took a moment to appreciate the swell of her ass, then over her thigh. At her knee he pulled her leg up and over his own thigh, letting the food dangle behind him. “Is that comfortable?” he murmured

“Hmmm, yes,” she responded, feeling boneless and on fire, letting herself open completely to him, wanting whatever he had to offer. He trailed his fingers from her knee along her inner thigh towards her cleft. Much like she had done, he ghosted across her pubic hair. She trembled against him.

“Can I touch you?” he asked into her ear.

“Oh by gods, yes!” she whimpered.

His fingers parted the folds and she nearly leapt out of her skin and he flicked across her clitoris. She gasped as he explored, touching but not focusing on the nub. His finger moved down and pressed against her entrance. She tilted to meet it. She keened as the finger pressed inside.

“Are you okay?” he asked tenderly.

“Yes, yes. It’s just been a long time. Don’t stop. Please.”

He didn’t. But he was slow and gentle, pumping in for a few beats, then sliding along the length of her slit. One finger in, then out. Two fingers in, then out. Three pressing deep. Her body responded greedily. She panted and squirmed. She wanted to call his name, but that was something else she had been denied, so she just arched her head back against the helm and moaned. Her heart thudded in her chest. The tension within her was becoming nearly unbearable.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she pleaded, needing to feel full of him.

He shifted behind her, separating their bodies briefly, making her whimper at the loss of connection. He shifted his hips downward. He positioned his cock and pressed into her. She gasped and reached back to grab his ass, willing him to continue. With her leg still draped over his thigh, she was open and offered no resistance. He tilted his hips toward her and pulled her back gently, each thrust bringing them closer together until she felt her ass nestled against him. He hugged her close again and she sighed as his warmth infused her again and she rested her head against the beskar; he pulled her even tighter as if they could fuse into a single person.

She squeezed his ass in encouragement and he began long, deep thrusts. Each one drew a mewl of pleasure from her. She was so close. “Touch me,” she begged. “I just need, just…”

He knew what she needed. He touched her and the thrusts grew faster, harder. He used the arm around her chest as leverage. The pressure built inside her, her ears rang with his grunts, her skin was hot and cold and alive.

She broke and trembled, crying out as she rode the waves of pleasure that flowed from the place where they were joined. Every movement he made added to the storm. He gave one final thrust and grunted into her ear as his arms pulled her tightly against him. She felt his helmet press to her neck as he seemed to curl into her.

They lay like that for some time. She may have slept. She wanted nothing more than to feel his arms around her forever.

The sky outside turned from inky black to dark gray, not quite dawn yet, but soon.

“You should go,” he said dully.

“I should,” she agreed, but neither moved.

He whispered her name. She smiled. She wouldn’t cry for what she had lost. She would only remember this and be thankful for what she had been given.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  



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